emptinesst

I've been advised that emptiness, or this emptiness, may be a wonderful openness! (a Buddhist view, for instance, of it)
The house itself is not empty. It is full of .... things. Old dogs and watermelon wine.

Ringo alone appears to be doing well. The dead armadillo in the road was not even cold when I put it in the trash this morning. And IESI Austin removed the trash. Though the weeks of rain have left a scum in the can.

So what's empty? Not my heart. My heart is leaking. It leaks love and rage. Though my blood pressure seems to be normal.

I do have a confession to make. My side is leaking again too. Yuck. The price I pay for being a holy man.
Wholly full of .... emptiness! Infection, anger, and antabuse. Talk about fun. I'm impervious. (Though I admit playing music continues to be 98% rockin.)

When the lightest feather from the tiniest bird falls ever ever so gently into the empty container which held who I thought I was, I think the bottom will fall out. I am wrong, but right now, the bird droppings are way heavy and semi-solid.